On Doomsday Minus Twenty-Three, they reached the broad valley of the Yenisei, the largest river in Siberia. Beyond the Yenisei, the gloomy taiga gave way again to the treeless, rolling grasslands known as the steppes. The farther west they traveled, the larger and more closely spaced the towns became—for all the good it did the travelers. Often they were in and out of a town so quickly that Charles, to his frustration, was unable to even learn the name of the place. His diary entries had become rather sketchy and repetitive:Friday, October 23
Doomsday Minus Twenty-Two. Stopped in an unidentified town just long enough for a meal of eggs, bread, and tea. Now camped alongside an unidentified river. I stand watch while the others sleep. We have not played cards for some time. Harry seems to have no interest in whist or bezique, or in much of anything except putting the miles behind us. I wish Elizabeth were still with us.
Saturday, October 24
Doomsday Minus Twenty-One. Bought kerosene in an unidentified town. Dined on bread, eggs, and tea. Tried in vain to find a map, to get some sense of where we actually are and how far we have to go. Will no doubt camp on the steppes again tonight.
Sunday, October 25
Doomsday Minus Twenty. Stayed the night in an actual hotel! I even learned the name of the city—Tomsk. It is home to the sole institution of higher learning in Siberia, Tomsk Imperial University, which was opened a mere three years ago, and which I of course did not have time to see. It prompted Fogg to inquire whether I meant to attend university. When I replied that I did, he said, to my surprise, that he had been considering the possibility himself. With his academic record, I doubt any reputable school would take him. But perhaps he could give Tomsk University a try.
Crossed the Tom River on a curious sort of ferry, powered by a cable attached to an anchor. A small boat went ahead of us, carrying the anchor, dropped it in the river, then the other end of the cable was reeled onto a winch or capstan turned by a long-suffering horse.
Monday, October 26
Doomsday Minus Nineteen. Camped on the steppes last night, nearly froze. The mosquitoes seem to be done with, at least. Drove through two unidentified towns without stopping. Passed by a settlement of Ostiaks, another of those tribes whose way of life is disappearing the face of progress. I cannot imagine they will miss it much. They live in birch-bark wigwams, dress in clothing made of pounded birch bark, and eat from bowls made of birch bark. I could not tell what they were eating. Birch bark, I expect.
Tuesday, October 27
Doomsday Minus Eighteen. We are in perhaps the largest, most appealing, most prosperous city I have seen since leaving San Francisco and, ironically, I find myself wishing that, as we have done with so many other towns, we had passed through without stopping.
I am writing this entry from a gaol cell. We have had a stroke of bad luck.
Charles was being kind. In truth, their misfortune was due less to bad luck than to a mistake on Harry’s part—not a large mistake, nor a foolish one, just an ordinary oversight. But sometimes small errors can lead to serious consequences.
Omsk was, as Charles indicated, a well-populated, busy metropolis—far too busy to suit Harry. The streets were filled with wagons and carriages and people on foot who stopped to gawk at the marvelous machine. Harry was forced to slow the Flash to a crawl, which only made matters worse, since now the gawkers gathered around the car for a closer look. A man in a European-style suit called to them, “You are the English motorists, yes?”
“Da!” replied Harry.
To his fellow Omskites, the man shouted something that included the words aftomobil and “Fogg.” The people responded with cheers. “It looks as though they’ve heard of us,” said Harry with his trademark grin, which had been seen so seldom of late.
Johnny groaned and, sliding down in his seat, pulled his cap over his ears.
Thanks to the growing crowd of well-wishers, the already-choked thoroughfare became nearly impassable. Harry had to halt frequently and suddenly; he was continually applying or releasing the hand brake, pushing the throttle in and out, engaging and disengaging the gears. So occupied was he with avoiding collisions that he neglected to lower the flame on the burner, and Johnny, upset by all the people and the noise, failed to notice. At last the boiler built up such a head of pressure that the safety valve blew, sending steam shooting from the smokestack.
The alarmed townsfolk scattered, some crying out in fright; the commotion, in turn, startled several horses, including one harnessed to a cart full of clay pottery. The animal reared into the air, dumping its load onto the pavement and shattering half the pots. The driver, who was also thrown from the cart, stormed up to the motorcar, limping and spouting a stream of what Harry could only assume were invectives and imprecations.
Harry shut down the burner and did his best to apologize in his limited French, but the man would not be mollified. He began shouting, “Policija! Policija!” Two policemen pushed their way through the spectators, who had recovered from their fear and reassembled.
Brandishing their batons, the officers herded the motorists and the injured party toward the station house. Johnny had to be pried away from the Flash. “Harry?” he pleaded.
“It’ll be all right, lad.” Harry spoke to the officers in French. “What about our carriage without horse? She cannot stop in the center of the street!”
“Don’t worry,” said one of the policemen. “Someone will move it.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “That is what worries me.”
“No one will steal it, if that’s what you mean,” said the man, rather crossly. “This is a law-abiding town. Now get moving.”
Though it galled him to do it, Harry resorted to the tactic his father had so often used on his fabled journey: He offered to pay the cart driver double what the pots were worth if he would drop the charges against them. “You Englishmen and your money,” said the policeman. “You think you can buy your way out of this? I’ve told you, this is a law-abiding town. You must go before the magistrate.”
“And when will the magistrate be here?”
“Tomorrow.”
They spent the next twenty-four hours in a badly heated jail cell so small that Harry could not even pace about. He sat cross-legged on a bunk and meditated and, for a change, it actually seemed to help. Charles passed the time by playing solitaire and writing in his diary. Johnny curled up in his bunk like some hibernating animal waiting for spring.
The following afternoon they were brought before the magistrate, who quickly scanned the police report, then glanced up with an eager look on his face. “You are Harry Fogg?” he said, in English.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have been following your adventures in the Moscow newspaper. But there has been nothing for at least a fortnight; I wondered what had become of you. You managed to repair your motorcar, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, we did. We also escaped a band of outlaws and crossed the Tchuma River in full flood. The only tight spot we have not managed to extricate ourselves from is the Omsk jail.”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience,” said the magistrate. “I hope it has not cost you too much time.”
“An entire day, actually.”
“How many days remain before you must be back in England?”
Harry turned to Charles, who said, “Seventeen, Your Honor.”
“Seventeen days? To cross all of Europe? Then why on earth are you standing here? It is clear that the whole incident was merely an accident!” The magistrate shouted something in Russian. Whatever he said, it had a profound effect. The three motorists were ushered from the room—not roughly, like prisoners, but respectfully, like visiting dignitaries. “Good luck to you, gentlemen!” the magistrate called after them.
The police escorted them to the spot where they had left the Flash. “You see,” said Harry cheerfully, “I told you it would be all right.”
“Except that we lost an entire day,” said Charles.
“Not to worry. We’ll make
up for it. As long as the Flash holds up, we’re—” He broke off and halted in his tracks, staring at their motorcar, which someone had pushed out of the street and onto the wooden sidewalk.
“What is it?” said Charles. “What’s wrong?”
“We’ve been robbed,” said Johnny.
THIRTY-SIX In which
THE TRAVELERS CHANGE CONTINENTS
Every bit of their equipment and supplies had been carried off, including their heavy coats, their bedding, the tents, the canned goods—even Johnny’s tools. What’s more, the acetylene lamps had been removed from the fenders, and there were gaping holes in the rain hood where someone had cut away numerous squares of the leather.
“I thought you said this was a law-abiding town!” cried Charles.
“This is not the work of criminals,” said the policeman. “I suspect it was ordinary townsfolk who wanted a souvenir from the famous globe-circling motorcar.”
“Oh, well,” said Charles, “when we’re freezing and starving to death out there on the steppes, we’ll console ourselves with the knowledge that it was all just a bit of harmless fun!”
“Calm down, Charles,” said Harry. “We can buy more supplies. Let’s just consider ourselves lucky we’re not still sitting in that jail cell.”
“I could easily arrest you again,” said the policeman, “for showing disrespect to an officer of the law.”
“The magistrate would only release us,” said Charles smugly.
“Perhaps.” The policeman sounded even more smug. “But it could take some time to schedule another hearing for you—possibly as much as a week.”
Charles grudgingly let the matter drop. It took the rest of the afternoon to replace the stolen supplies—not all of them, by any means, only the most essential items. As Harry and Charles stood in a mercantile store, selecting woolen blankets, Harry unexpectedly let out a laugh. “I’m glad you find the situation so amusing,” said Charles.
“I was just thinking about how you told off that policeman. Not very gentlemanly of you, old chap.”
“I was angry. I still am.”
“I know. And you must admit, that in itself is rather amusing.”
“In what way?” demanded Charles.
“Well, you sounded so indignant, so . . . proprietary, as though the thieves had done you some grave personal injury. But most of the supplies were ours; all you lost was a portmanteau with a couple of changes of clothing. And I noticed that, earlier, you said ‘we lost an entire day’—not they, but we. You seem to consider yourself an actual part of this expedition, not just an observer.”
“Haven’t I earned that right?”
“Of course you have. But isn’t that conflict of interest, or something? I mean, your father is betting two thousand pounds that we’ll lose, and yet you seem determined to have us win.”
Charles fingered one of the blankets thoughtfully. “When we started out, you know, I thought the whole idea was ludicrous. I was certain we’d break down before we got out of England. But this trip has convinced me that motorcars are just as practical as locomotives—more so, in fact, because you can go anywhere you like with one, not just along a set of tracks. Someday soon they’re going to replace the railroads. If we can make my father understand that, it’s worth a lot more than two thousand pounds.”
“I agree,” said Harry. “Now, we’d better pay for all this and get on the road; we have a lot of miles to make up.”
“Right. But see here, Harry. Perhaps you’d better let me take care of this. You can’t have much money left.”
“Thanks for the thought, my friend, but I can’t have your father accusing me of cheating—accepting aid and comfort from the enemy, as it were.”
“It’s not his money; it’s mine.”
“All the same, I’d rather not. Besides, I have more than enough to cover it.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but how the deuce did you manage that? I saw your bankroll after you lost that race to Morrison. You were running low even then.”
Harry scratched his head and shifted about uncomfortably.
“Never mind,” said Charles. “I suppose it’s none of my business.”
“No, no, the fact is, I’m tired of keeping it to myself. Just promise me one thing—you won’t breathe a word about this to Johnny.”
“All right. I promise.”
“You remember your father’s friend, Drummond, whom we met in San Francisco?”
“Of course. What about him?”
“Well, I . . . The thing is, I . . . I sold him the Flash.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, unfortunately, I’m not. I was nearly out of money, and it was the only way I could think of to raise enough for the rest of the trip. I certainly couldn’t ask my father for more.”
Charles shook his head incredulously. “That was a deuced stupid thing to do, Harry. I see why you didn’t want me to tell Johnny. But you know, he’ll find out eventually, and he’s going to be extremely upset.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You see, I wasn’t nearly as stupid as you think. I didn’t sell Drummond the Flash outright. I made a deal with him: He gets the car only if we lose. If we win, I give him back his money, and we keep the Flash. So Johnny never needs to know.”
“Provided we win the wager, that is.”
“Oh, we’ll win—” Harry started to say, but at that moment Johnny came through the door of the mercantile.
“Aren’t you done?” asked Johnny.
Harry gave Charles a warning glance, then forced a smile. “Almost. Did you get the tools you needed?” Johnny held up a box full of clanking metal items. “Good lad,” said Harry. “Better return to the Flash, now, before the policeman gets tired of guarding it.”
By the time they left Omsk, it was nearly dark. They hadn’t had time to go hunting for acetylene lamps to replace the stolen ones. The best Harry could do was an ordinary kerosene lantern. He hung it on the end of a pole that projected several feet in front of the car. It didn’t shed much light on the road, but it was better than nothing.
Though he was weary after their uncomfortable night in jail, there was little chance he would fall asleep at the wheel; the cold air that rushed through the gaps in the leather hood kept him wide awake. By dawn, when he handed the wheel over to Johnny, they were nearly two hundred miles closer to England. Charles had gotten his hands on a map at last and, according to his calculations, they had roughly six thousand miles to go.
After a few hours’ sleep, Harry took over again. “No offense, Johnny,” he said, “but you drive too slowly.”
“If I go fast,” said Johnny, “it hurts when I hit the bumps.”
“It hurts you, or it hurts the Flash?”
“Both.”
“I won’t hurt her,” said Harry. “I promise.”
But later that afternoon, as Harry was trying to drink from their canteen with one hand and steer with the other, he let the car drift too far to the right. The shoulder of the road had washed away, leaving an abyss into which the front wheel dropped with a painful thud and the sickening sound of cracking wood. “The devil take me,” said Harry.
When they attempted to lift the car out of the hole, they discovered that the souvenir hunters of Omsk had even taken their jack. With a stout tree trunk and a good deal of groaning, they levered up the Flash and slid the front end onto solid ground, then replaced the broken wheel with one of the cleated ones. It made for a bumpy ride, and the cleats chewed up the gravel, but it got them to Tiumen, where, for a change, they had a leisurely dinner while the wheel was repaired.
“I’m sorry, Johnny,” said Harry. “I should have been more careful.”
Johnny shrugged. “Lucky they lasted this long. Should’ve used steel ones.”
“That’s one of the improvements we’ll make,” said Harry, “before we set out on our next journey.”
Charles laughed. “Once you’ve traveled round the world, where is there left to go?”
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“Oh, I don’t know,” said Harry. “What about the North Pole?”
Though the Trans-Siberian Railway would not reach Vladivostok for many years yet, it had made it east as far as Tiumen. There was no longer any need, however, for the intrepid motorists to drive on the tracks. The post road had at last become a highway worthy of the name, broad and level and surfaced with crushed stone. Over the next two days they made better time than they had since beginning the journey.
On the evening of Doomsday Minus Fourteen, they entered Ekaterinburg. According to Charles’s map, the Ural Mountains lay just beyond the city. “Perhaps we should wait for daylight to cross the mountains,” he suggested.
Harry reluctantly agreed. “It looks like rain, in any case. We should probably fix the holes in our hood.”
They rented space in a livery stable and set about repairing the hood, securing the patches with both glue and stitching, to be certain they held. For a change, Charles did his share without being asked. For even more of a change, he did not insist on finding a hotel; he supped on cheese sandwiches and beer and slept on a bed of straw alongside the others.
They set out the next morning before sunrise. The rain had turned to a light drizzle. Still, they were glad to have a sound roof over their heads. Though they were slowly gaining altitude, they saw no sign of any actual mountains. “Are you sure you read the map properly?” asked Harry.
“Quite sure,” replied Charles indignantly.
“There’s a marker.” Johnny pointed to a marble pillar alongside the road.
Harry stopped and climbed out to see what was inscribed on the pillar. When he returned, he was laughing.
“What?” demanded Charles. “What does it say?”
“Well, on one side it says ‘Asia.’ On the other side it says ‘Europe.’”
“That means we’re at the summit of the Urals. How did that happen, without our even noticing?”
Around the World in 100 Days Page 21
